


Stories from a Tired Mind

by faithlethalhane



Category: Carmilla (Web Series)
Genre: F/F, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-13
Updated: 2016-02-13
Packaged: 2018-05-20 02:31:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 11,258
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5989051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/faithlethalhane/pseuds/faithlethalhane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just a miscellaneous mix of hollstein (and a few hollence) prompts I've gotten on Tumblr that are too short to stand on their own. I think you'll find a little bit of everything here</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Tiny Gay Coffee Shop AU

Prompt: Hollstein Coffee Shop AU where this sign is in play: "Today your barista is: 1. Hella fucking gay. 2. Desperately single. For your drink today I recommend: You give me your number."

...

...

...

Laura could feel her hands trembling as she folded and unfolded her money, double and triple checking to make sure the note was still wedged between them.

_Stop it, Hollis. _It’s just a phone number. She can throw it away if she wants._ Jesus. You can do this._

She clenched both her fists at her sides, looking straight ahead and stepping to the counter, where the  _super_ attractive barista was standing. _  
_

“What can I do you for, cutie?” she asked casually, flicking her bangs out of her eyes as she looked up.

Laura opened her mouth to say something, but she had been too nervous with the move she had planned to remember the coffee she wanted. “Uhhh…”

Carmilla’s lips twitched up in an almost smile of amusement before she went back to an expectant look of waiting.

“Just a, uhh, p-peppermint mocha?” she stuttered.

This time Carmilla did smile, licking her lips as she typed it into the cash register.

“You sure? Or are you asking me?”

Laura gave a nervous laugh, cheeks burning. “No I-I’m sure.”

Carmilla glanced up, smirk playing at her lips, and Laura’s heart stuttered.

“That’ll be $3.50.”

Laura didn’t even notice she hadn’t asked for a size as she shoved the money at her. Carmilla flicked open the bills one by one as she counted, head tilting at the piece of paper wedged between. “I think you-”

But she stops, mid-sentence, staring down at the number. Her mouth dropped open in shock, only to fluidly form into a smirk and an exhaled laugh of disbelief.

“The sign’s out front, isn’t it?”

Laura nodded, lips pressing together in sympathetic understanding. She felt the blood once again rushing to her cheeks. Carmilla ground her teeth, glancing to the side and meeting eyes with LaFontaine, who snorted and ducked below the counter’s edge.

“I’m gonna kill them,” she said flatly, turning to look back at Laura. “Sorry. You really don’t have to play along-”

“No!” Laura rushed out a little too quickly.

Carmilla blinked. Laura blushed, looking down before continuing. “I-I…you should keep it. If…if you want.” She was talking too fast and she  _knew_ she was talking too fast but her lips just kept moving anyway. “I’ll totally take it back if you want though because I mean no pressure you’re probably very capable of finding someone-”

“I’ll call you later, sweetheart,” Carmilla cut in, all low and scratchy voice, and Laura forgot where she had even been taking that sentence.

She got her change and scurries to the pick up station, wanting nothing more than to bury herself up in her scarf to hide her pink cheeks. At least she could hide her shaking hands in her pockets.

They called her name, and she doesn’t even remember saying it. But she raised her hand and comes face to face with the largest cup of coffee she’d ever seen in her life. It only made her blush more as she grabbed it and runs for the door. She drank it all the way to class.

She sat in it the corner of her desk as she took her notes, sipping it lightly until it’s almost empty.

And it wasn’t until class was almost over did she catch Danny scowling in her general direction. Well…not her direction, right at her cup, actually.

She frowned, tilting her head to see exactly what the girl was scowling at, and hidden under the sleeve she made out hints of sharpie. She twisted it around to see better, lifting it up and pulling the sleeve off. In scrawling script across the cup she sees “creampuff” and in parentheses, much less fluid like she had written it reluctantly is “laura.”

And even bigger than that, in easy confident strokes, was a phone number.


	2. Princess Dragon Dream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hollstein + “I understand the whole sleep talking thing but what I don’t understand is the princess dragon dream and why I’m in it.”

You’ve known for a while you talk in your sleep but for some reason it never registered for you that you can’t stop it. Even when you hate everything (almost everything) about the person who lives with you. And can hear you. Every night.

It was an innocent enough gesture the first time. She had told you not to worry about your philosophy paper, quoting a book you had been having nightmares of. And it hadn’t struck you until that moment she probably knew a lot of your dreams.

It only made you more persistent to stop.

You tried wearing the awful mouth guard your father got you one year to stop you from grinding your teeth. But quite frankly it just sucked to wear. So while you were desperate? You weren’t _that_  desperate.

The night you dreamed of haunted retirement homes and coffin shopping you woke to a note on your computer telling you to call your father. You thought you had just missed him earlier but he was delightfully surprised when he picked up. You talked for two hours and even though you missed class, you needed it. 

That clearly wasn’t her intention though. (right?)

Still, you can’t shake that feeling that she’s being _intrusive._ She’s looking inside your head when you can’t even control it and you don’t _like_  it.

A week later you’re in a dream of twisting sheets, sweat and heat and _pulsing._ Muscles straining, aching so _good_  with your hand anchored deep in silken hair, breath catching more and more until not only are your muscles burning but your lungs too, that beautiful mouth just _fueling_  that itch deep in your abdomen.

But when you look down and she looks up, you _know_  those eyes and you wake up gasping, so disoriented from the transition to reality you aren’t even sure which is the floor and which is the ceiling.

You lay there in your cold (hot) sweat, lungs fighting for the next gulp of air until you can really _feel_  yourself calming back down.

It was _her._

You’re just thankful she wasn’t in the room.

And then from there it becomes a common theme in all your dreams. A _very_  common theme. And the more it happens the less you sleep because the more paranoid you get you’ll _give it all away to her_.

You despise the woman; if she found out she’d hold it over you for the rest of your natural life. She’d torment you until you had to change your name and move to Spain or something.

She couldn’t know.

But of course that isn’t your biggest worry when you’re cramming for a lit midterm. Of course that isn’t what your mind is screaming at you as the boring stacks on top of the _boring_  and you’re falling asleep on your book.

The passion spark has faded somewhat. Instead of blatent sex your mind has started constructing scenarios around it. Actual words being spoken with actual stories to be untangled. 

The medieval one is most common. Nothing truly spectacular, your subconscious certainly isn’t winning any creativity awards, but you don’t complain about that beautiful woman with her beautiful jawline and eyes that either say fuck me up or just fuck me and you’re _totally_  okay with both. You really don’t mind that she brandishes that ever cliche sword to protect you from that God forsaken dragon.

And you watch as she nearly dies to kill the damn thing, your heart so high up in your throat you can’t even really swallow. She always comes rushing back to check on you. Always makes sure you’re okay. It makes your mouth go dry and your head swim and you _always_  wake up before you can go in for that kiss. Today you audibly groan when it happens, bundling up covers over your face.

You hear her snicker and you freeze.

“Not really the prying type here,” she prefaces, and you can just _hear_  the teasing in her voice. You brace for the worst. “I understand the whole sleep talking thing but what I don’t understand is the princess dragon dream and why I’m in it.”

You throw the covers off your face and sit up. She tilts her head. “I mean I didn’t take you for the warrior princess type, cupcake, the way you let poor Danny the white knight down I figured—”

“You’re the dragon,” you mutter quickly, clumsily throwing on your shoes and rushing out into the hall before she can see your blush.

Perry finds you banging your head on the wall in the laundry room. You don’t tell her, obviously. It’s Perry. She’d either give you a lecture or spill everything to Carmilla and both are _big_  worlds of no. Instead you just cry into her shoulder with the looming thought of _you’re screwed_  echoing in your ears.

How could you be falling for her? She’s a vampire and a kidnapper, accessory to murder, the list is _endless_  and yet all you can think about is how she reminds you to take your birth control every night (not even looking up from her book, mind you), how she cannot seem to give one single _crap_  about keeping her side of the room neat but the moment you spend more than ten minutes looking for a button-up to wear in the morning and eventually give up, when you get back all your things are magically in order and there is the button-up you’d been looking for hanging right in the closet where you couldn’t find it. How you swear you sometimes forget to go shopping but you’ve never run out of cookies or grape soda.

It shouldn’t _matter_. She’s a _killer_. She’s quite _literally_  damned.

The dreams fade, though. They’re replaced with those creepy blood nightmares more and more.

And you start missing seeing her in your dreams. Until suddenly you notice her. Actual her. Following you to the library. Brushing her fingers over that stupid dried batwing when she passes your bed before you fall asleep. Teaching you waltzing and keeping you un-zombified. Diving leagues under the sea to get a sword that might just save you.

Dying for you.

And living for you.

And you realize dream her wasn’t different. Just…overemphisized.

You’re glad you got that kiss after all.


	3. Perry/Carmilla Friendship

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> laura and laf have had enough of school and have decided to spend the night out having fun and their poor SO’s are stuck wondering what the fuck happened

You press your fingers to your temple as you try focusing on anything but the empty bed across from you.

_Don’t look up don’t look up don’t look up_

You glance over at the clock and it reads half past ten; half past Laura’s self-assigned curfew. Your mind fans a cursory sweep over all the possibilities of where she could be, and your body wracks an involuntary shudder. _God_. You bite your lip, shake your head. She’s not a child. Well, sure she is, but she’s not _incapable_.

That doesn’t keep your heart from kicking as a too vivid image of blood and her and just…

Sighing, you drop your head in your hands, giving up on doing work and pushing the book off your lap. You feel that instinctive urge to protect bubbling up, and no matter how hard you try and shove it down, you’re reaching for your phone. One little text couldn’t hurt.

**hey, cutie. going to the store; you need anything?**

Of course it was a lie. You don’t go grocery shopping. But you don’t much care where she _is_ , just that she’s…alright.

You wait one minute.

Two.

Three.

And nope that’s too much for you, you try one last ditch attempt.

**Perry? You seen Laura?**

Honesty, you don’t expect an answer. That girl’s been wary of you before she even knew you were a centuries old vampire. She gave you a pretty wide berth ever since the day you and she knocked shoulders in the hall, and when she tried to introduce herself, you might or might not have turned around and pulled her up into your breathing space. You might or might not have promised you didn’t need to know her name, so long as she was screaming yours by the end of the night. 

_Might have._   _Maybe_. (you definitelly had)

To be fair, you hadn’t known her then. And to be fair, the expression on her face had, in fact, been worth it.

Still. In retrospect, you’re surprised she had the humility to pretend it didn’t happen. To _defend_ you, on occasion.

Apparently even had the decency to text you back, you muse, as your phone buzzes beside you. You check it with a skeptical eyebrow raise.

**Oh thank God**

**I was worried you had taken them**

**But I didn’t want to undermine Laura’s…life choices**

There is a pause.

**No offence**

**Really, no offence**

You exhaled a laugh, shaking your head.

**…**

**But no**

**I haven’t seen Laura**

**And LaFontaine slipped away**

**I can’t find them Carmilla what do I do**

**what if they’re still under that weird…spell thingy**

**what if they ran off**

You roll your eyes and flip your phone on silent. If they’re both missing that means Laura either convinced Laf to take her somewhere crazy. Or Laf convinced _Laura_  to go somewhere crazy.

You put your head in your hands, groaning into the empty room. Both options are equally likely. And equally unfortunate.

A rapid, shallow knocking at your door startles you, head jerking up to look in its general direction. You don’t have time for this.

“Simba girl,” you say as patiently as you can (though it comes out as more of a tired sigh), “I’m going out to look for them now.”

“I should come with you,” she says almost immediately, and you run a tired hand over your face. “You-you could need backup, in case, y’know, something’s wrong. Or…something.” She huffs. “I don’t know just-“

There’s silence, and grudgingly you stand. Head toward the door. “I just think she n-“

You open the door, eyebrows raised, meeting Perry’s clearly stressed out gaze. “That’s not gonna happen curly-q. Solo artist, remember.”

You brush gently past the girl, and you’re halfway down the hall before you hear her speak.

“Carmilla, please.” Your name wobbles on her lips, and your feet freeze mid-step.

You curse every fiber of your sudden new moral compass as you turn yourself back around. She’s looking at you so heartbroken, chin trembling, fingers playing tirelessly at the hem of her sweater. And you feel the deepest seeds of empathy branching out in your stomach.

You close your eyes, clenching your jaw and bracing for the _horrible_ decision you are about to make, and exhale sharply. “Yeah, whatever,” you say, pressing your fingers to your forehead to prematurely try and repress the headache in your future.

She squeals.

Actually squeals.

And her footsteps pounding down the hall are unmistakable. You’re swept up into a hug before you can think to protest, and she spins you around in a sharp circle, squeezing you in a hug that would’ve surely suffocated you if you weren’t already dead.

“Yes, I know, I’m a giver,” you mutter when she finally lets your feet touch the ground again.

She gives you a tight smile. “We’ll go with that,” she tries politely, and you snort.

“Maybe there’s hope for you yet,” you joke as you head for the stairs.

“Wait…” she looks at you in confusion. “D…do you know where they are?”

You shrug your shoulders. “No, but they’re not here, so…”

And it’s enough for her to rush to your side. Could it be that you found yourself a puppy instead of a human?

That’s something you definitely have to determine later.

…

It’s cold outside and beside you, Perry shivers. Your lips flatten wearily, but without any protest, you extend your elbow out to her. She just stares at it. You have to wiggle it around in the air like a goddamn chicken before she takes the hint and reaches for it, and you bend it back to your side, effectively trapping her hands against your side, shielded from the cold.

“That’s, umm,” she clears her throat and you smirk to yourself. You can _hear_ her blush. “Very thoughtful of you.”

You grin to the side at her. “I was going for gentlemanly but I suppose thoughtful works too.” You tip your head and she doesn’t know where to look so she chooses her feet. You feel almost bad.

“So, uhh, what’s your big plan?”

“Well…” you say slowly, “you shouldn’t take my quick attempt to find them as organized. More…confidence.”

“Oh God you don’t have a plan.” She jerks to a stop.

“No,” you contest. “I have a lite plan. A…vague semblance of a plan.”

She raises her eyebrows at you. “And that would be…?”

You shrug, tilting your head toward the commotion down at the far side of campus. “Follow the alchemy club.”

She opens her mouth in protest, but her brow furrows in thought as she actually considers what you said. And with a defeated half-shrug, she snaps her mouth closed for a moment, slowly starting up a walk once more. “I guess you’ve…got a point.”

You smile wryly. “I like to give merit to the few brain cells I’ve still got.”

She exhales sharply, and after a moment, you realize it was a laugh. Smiling, you glance over at her, and she glances back for a moment. “What?” she asks, hesitant. “What’s that look for?”

“Could it be?” you tease, “that I made the great Lola Perry laugh? Wow, honestly, biggest surprise I’ve had in this lifetime.”

The corners of her mouth twitch up, and she looks down for a moment, before she looks back over at you. “And _you_ know my name,” she said quickly. “Didn’t even have to sleep with me. Guess we’ve both got something to be surprised about”

It’s your turn to blush.

“Don’t get used to it,” you mutter. “I’m growing fond of ‘ginger medusa’ myself.”

She purses her lips, glares, but does not pull away from your arm, so…you assume she takes it in good humor.

Your phone buzzes and you struggle to pull it from your pocket without releasing Perry’s hands from their spot. It looks smooth, though, so that’s all that matters as you swipe to read Lara’s text.

**x;ou**

You roll your eyes.

“That’s…inconclusive,” Perry says beside you, and you laugh in your sigh.

“Yeah,” is all you say.

Because she’s right. Either it means Laura is trying to text super drunk (not the best of possibilities but certainly not the worst), she’s butt-texting you while sitting in some dungeon kidnapped (probably one of the worst options but who knows your mind is _very_ imaginative), she dropped her phone while trying to type and it sent before she could edit it (honestly that’s the best you can do for positive), or maybe she’s slammed up in some dark corner hooking up with Danny the Amazonian Lawrence and every goddamn push of her hips pressed a few keys unknowingly before it sent (yup there’s that imagination thing).

You shake your head and walk a little faster. Perry must have come to her own conclusions too, for she does not hesitate to match your speed step for step.


	4. Time Complicates

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Complex carmilla morality monologue-y thing

_living life as long as you have, you cannot avoid becoming both sides of the proverbial coin_

_some say that makes you complex. you say it makes you a walking contradictory joke_

You enjoy(ed?) killing. But there’s a common misconception associated with that. People think it’s out of anger, or pain or hurt. They think there’s a reason, and if there’s a reason why you do it, then there’s a reason to stop too.

Well, they’re wrong. There is no reason why you like it. You think it has something to do with your soul getting sucked out of you the minute Mother pulled you back from the jaws of Death itself. Almost, of course. He got one good bite in before He spit you back.

The other misconception is that you are a monster, through and through. You’d like to think you are, but you know you’re not. The guilt? It’s there. It’s always there. But God it doesn’t taste as bitter as starvation does. Nor does it sour the thrill of that chase.

Killing isn’t necessarily your thing, though. It isn’t what you enjoy the most. It’s just what naturally came next. It’s what you learned. It’s what you did. There was no reason anyone told you not to. And so for the longest time that’s how you lived. You seduced these girls, which quite honestly was your favorite part. To lure them in, watch them melt for you.

God, it made your skin crawl with _power_ to watch those girls beg for it, for you. Not in the strictest of senses, but…subtly. You loved watching girls lean themselves into you, breathe with you. Part their lips and jut their chins out and hang in rapture praying you’ll take them up on that offer.

It’s delicious. It always has been, even from day one. To _hear_ the breath catch in their throat when you tilt your head and smirk, to feel their heartbeats kick up hard with just a drag of your fingers down their neck.

To smell them wanting you even when they’re across the room.

Part of you thinks it’s not fair, the advantages you have over them. You think that’s why you love her so.

She doesn’t relent to herself. You can always hear her heart, nervous thuds the moment you’re within reach, but she always fights, she always _ignores_ and you want to say you love her for the chase but that’s not it. She’s stubborn. She’s _strong_.

She’s stronger than you’ve ever been. Stronger than you ever _will_ be.

And you’ve fallen in love too many times to not recognize the feeling catching in your throat every time she fights so goddamn _hard_.

She’s a fight ‘til her knuckles bleed, shout ‘til her throat’s hoarse kind of girl. It’s beautiful, no matter how naïve the things she fights for are.

It’s even beautiful when you’re the thing she’s fighting back from.

And you hate it and you hate _her_ and you hate _you_ but that’s nothing new. You don’t hate yourself because you’re a monster, you hate yourself because you never wanted to learn how to stop.

Part of you registers that’s enough. Part of you sees _that_ is what she sees. That you have good. That you are not pure of darkness.

But that does not mean a thing.

You love her. And you want her to love you. But there’s a bridge she cannot cross and that is that you will _be_ that good person, just because that’s who she wants you to be. You will stop the killing and the violence, you’ll stop the rampaging and the sister bonding. You will. But only if she understands that’s not who you are, it’s what you do.

And until she can make that leap, you have to continue being you. You have to continue letting her see the darkness fracturing your soul.

Killing lost its edge a long time ago. Ever since you realized you were turning into Mother. It repulsed you slightly. Not the killing. The thought of being her. The thought of being that vile woman who spent centuries scaring the life right out of you.

So you fight it. You fought her, and you won. But the killing still calls sometimes. The adrenaline you can taste in veins, the life you can feel down your throat.

You’ve known many philosophers. Some say your first instinct is what defines. Some say the part of you that questions and declines that instinct is truly who you are.

You don’t know the answer. The first one means you are a monster, and you always will be a monster.

The second? The second flirts with the notion that you are much more human than you ever anticipated in the afterlife.

…

Yes, that’s much more black and white because it quite literally _is_ about who you are, deep down in your core. Demon, vampire, being beyond that of human that _makes_ you more inclined to kill.

It doesn’t make you a social deviant. That’s something you’ve done all by your sad crappy self. You have a reason. It’s a crap reason, and it’s probably one of the things about you that leans you more toward the metaphorical monster type than the literal monster type, but you aren’t sure one can ever be independent of the other.

Long story short, you got tired of waiting. Or, you got tired of being forced to wait. You lived your life at Mother’s beck and call, on a kidnapping schedule like clockwork. And yes, it got your rocks off most of the time, it only happened every twenty years.

So naturally you had a lot of down time. First few years were wonderful. You spent them painting the world red with Mattie by your side. It was any Hell raiser’s dream. But years turned into decades, and you got to know very intimately the less than great sides of your sister. Things that drove you sometimes literally up the wall.

Needless to say, you discovered you should limit your companionship with Mattie to a maximum of a year every decade or so.

That leaves you with a lot of alone time though.

Which started with your one day chases into two days. Instead of seduce, drink and kill. It was seduce, spend a night, maybe cuddle, maybe talk, then drink and kill.

Needless to say, killing felt less natural and more forced. Until it almost hurt. But you were alone and tired and the world just stayed _monotonously stagnant_ for a place that was “progressive.” So you couldn’t just go back to old routines.

So instead of two days, sometimes you did three, or maybe a week. Sometimes you spent months with these girls because they were, most of the time (you had pretty good taste) fairly decent company.

Until eventually you started killing men because you liked the women too much. Everything was backwards and it was confusing and frustrating, but nothing you couldn’t handle.

Not until the girls you liked started dying on you. Disease and famine, rape and murder; the world started doing to you what you did to it. Taking.

It made you bitter.

Swallowing a big piece of humble pie, but it wasn’t humble pie. It was ‘hey look at all the shitty things you’ve done and you’re going to keep doing here’s how it feels and never forget it’ pie.

And that was your cross to bear so to speak. You waged a never-ending war with the world itself, taking what you wanted and trying to hold onto what you needed only to have Fate pull the rug out from under you time and time again.

Until you stopped wanting.

Until you stopped needing.

Until the world won the war.

You stopped wanting to care about people because they all left. Not in a poor pathetic moping vampire kind of sense. You’re not that sad. The world took from you what you deserved to lose. It was as simple as that, but that didn’t mean you had to be happy about it.

And thus, for decades on end, the cycle continued. You stopped trying to want or care and the world waved something nice and shiny under your nose until you could feel that jealousy creeping up, feel that yearning digging itself a home in your chest as you watched Fate dangle that carrot maliciously over you.

That’s usually when the bitterness came back, the knowing it’s going to disappear. So you push people away. It’s no excuse, and you’re still horrible for doing it, but decades of doing it really desensitized you to how much it probably hurt to other people because you were so damn focused on trying to minimize your own feelings.

Why? Simple. You never knew what to feel when you, well, _felt_. And you think that’s what made you worse than before. At the very beginning, you felt nothing. You killed and you were a monster and you knew it. Now? Now you feel everything, every type of pain, every type of sorrow and anguish and  guilt and fear. Each twinge in your gut has a name because you’ve spent decades memorizing what they feel like, but the more you think you know, the more the feelings jumble back together into one big indiscernable _hurt_. And it makes you worse now because you _want_ to feel nothing and be that monster again. Be that vile thing that killed and sent _fear_ into the hearts of villages. You wanted to be the scary story parents told to keep their kids home at night. Because that monster didn’t feel the shit you felt now.

So where does that leave you? A horrible mess, that’s where. You don’t know who you are. You are the girl that wants to feel nothing, to kill and be numb, but you are also the girl that wants to love and be better for the people you _know_ are worth it, no matter how hard they get ripped away from you.

In the end, though, you will lose.

You will either end up the empty monster or you will end up the girl fighting every day to be something comparable to decent.

You don’t know which sounds worse. All you know is you don’t deserve pity from anyone. 


	5. Trapped in the Library

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hollence + “I just really need to have you here right now.”

It’s hard to give her privacy these days. The library may be a sentient being, but it apparently doesn’t give a rats ass if you want to give her space because all it seems to do is _lock_  doors as of late instead of open them. Lafontaine wandered off at least a week ago, and while you know she is still around _somewhere_  it certainly isn’t _here_  with you and with…her.

The VHS tapes helped for a little while. She joked. Smiled, even. 

Nights are hard and sleeping is harder because _God_  just listening to her thrash and whimper with whatever guilt is plaguing her mind tears a new gash in your chest.

Mostly because you can’t reach out. You can’t save her from this.

Having a camera helps. Yes, it’s and old laptop, and yes it’s hard wired into place, but it’s something for her to hold onto. 

And for so many nights you’ve pretended that you needed to go searching, only to get to the locked door and wedge yourself behind the piles of _stuff_  down in that basement just to give her _time_  and breathing room.

No matter how hard you try you can’t _not_  hear her and it’s hard because she needs this but it’s harder because you _don’t_. From the shadows you watch her fumble with the laptop, adjust herself into a somewhat confident position before clicking with finality.

She clears her throat, shifts a little more, opening her mouth to start a video, but she stops. Her mouth closes and her shoulders slump. She pulls the blanket a little tighter around her shoulders as she hangs her head.

“This is…Laura Hollis,” she finally says, voice trembling. “And I-I wanted to say…I’m sorry.”

At first you think she is apologizing to the campus. The entire student body as if _she_  is their elected protector. As if she is the sole person who failed them.

“I shouldn’t have let you…fight for me.”

You frown. That sounds odd.

She bows her head again, and you can see the slightest shaking in her shoulders. “I failed you and I got lost a-and…”

She trails off because her jaw is trembling too hard. She clenches it in that stubborn Laura Hollis way, lifting her head to look at the screen once more.

“I just really need to have you here right now,” she forces out, voice scratched with mournful tears. “You’d…you’d know what to do.”

She sniffles, wiping her nose on the blanket for probably the _billionth_  time this week and it hurts so much worse than usual.

“I-I don’t know who I am anymore. And…a-and part of me thinks you’d tell me. I need _help_  and I think I’m gonna j-just drown by the end of this.”

She chokes on a particularly hard wave of tears, and for a moment her hand sneaks out from the blanket folds to wipe furiously at her eyes. “You’d tell me I was wrong o-or…or even tell me I was right I just…”

She shoves the laptop away in what little rage she can muster, burying her face into her tucked up knees. “I just _can’t_  need you ‘cause you’ll never be here,” her muffled mumbles come through to you.

You swallow down your bitter laugh because she’s right back where you started. Stuck. Alone. Forced to find her own way in a world that doesn’t seem to fit your mold anymore.


	6. Buffy/Carmilla Crossover Prequel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> bad fanfic prompt: before meeting Laura, Carmilla meets Faith, who's trying to kill her. Knowing she can't beat a slayer, Carmilla tries to flirt her way out of death. Your choice if it's early out of control Faith or after going to jail Faith.

It’s funny, looking back, how similar you and she had been. Two souls stuck in you perspective wars too long. Two young girls spoiled by sin and death and _solitude_ , aching to belong only to never _be meant to_. Two young women caught up in the magnitude of the power they weren’t ready to wield. Hungry for vengeance and _tired_ in the prime of your life.

Neither quite sure which side of the righteous good and evil coin the pair of you would land on.

The flip-flopers of your nations.

But then? Oh, then, neither of you had a clue.

…

“Do I know you?”

You wipe the blood from your mouth just in time for her to fully see your face. 

“I don’t believe so,” you start to brush off, when you see _her_ face. It’s definitely older, but you _have_ met her before. Or at the very least, _seen_ her.

And maturity definitely suits her.

Grinning, you reach out and brush your fingers along her shoulder. The power you feel beneath her skin is staggering, and you blink once, grin faltering before you widen it. “My, my,” you drawl. “I think you might.”

She squints at you, Faith Lehane, all grown up and beautiful right in your hands, and you gently brush your fingers along her shoulder, waiting for her to feel your power too.

She takes too long, and with an easy shove, you pin her against the brick wall of the alley, debris falling in a quiet shower from the force.

Her eyes flash recognition _finally_ after she takes a moment to look you in the eye, and you take a step closer, waiting for her to say your name.

“Mircalla Karnstein,” she growls.

You smirk in satisfaction, and after a moment, you release her, raising your hands up. “Truce tonight, slayer. Come on. First round on me.”

“Fine, truce,” she mutters, dusting herself off and shrugging out of the soreness from where your hand had been. “Free drink and a free hit. All’s fair.”

You laugh, biting your lip. “It is in love and war, yes. Which is this?”

Her mouth opens in surprise before it twists into a grin. “Time will tell,” she remarks sarcastically, knocking shoulders with you as she brushes past. “Now c’mon, fang girl. We’re wasting moon light.”

…

One scotch rocks and red wine finally served to you in the privacy of a booth, she gets right into it, tipping her drink back to down half of it.

You raise your eyebrows, taking a sip and watching her intently.

“Is it true?” she asks, chin jutted out in that overtly sexual way, open mouthed grin keeping your attention focused on her lips.

“What?” You’re increasingly less interested in what her mouth says than what it can do.

“That you only hunt women?” You hear the implication loud and clear.

Despite knowing the game, you are still pulled into it. The drawling voice, the obvious exposure of her neck and over-defining of her jawline. You have to blink before you can draw your gaze from her lips to her eyes.

“In a perfect world, I would, yes.” You smile flatly, returning your gaze pointedly to her lips. “But even I can’t be a gold star.”

She runs her tongue along the back of her teeth as she widens her grin. “Cute.”

“They wouldn’t say anything that PG,” you tease, leaning a little closer across the table.

Her eyes divert to your chest for only but a second before they’re back up at your eyes. Her smirk is dark. “It’s hard to say much six feet under.”

“You’ve got me all wrong, slayer.“

She raises her eyebrows skeptically, leaning back in her seat with the air of casual apathy. You shrug.

“I’ve gone soft.”

She narrows her eyes, inspecting you fully for a moment before speaking. “How soft?”

You bite your lip and laugh. “I can still take you out, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Not exactly the thought I had, no,” she frowns at you over the rim of her rocks glass. “How soft?” she repeats.

You’re not sure what the right answer is. “Soft enough.”

“Had any pure happiness lately?”

You snort. “I haven’t got a soul, unfortunately. But if that’s your standards then you’re more black and white than I remember.”

She looks at you uncertainly as you take a sip of your wine. “So what’s got you soft?”

Your smile hardens, your memory pulling you down back into the coffin you inhabited for seventy years, the woman responsible for it flashing in front of your eyes. 

“I’ve got an unsettled score. Just so happens to be with an evil Demi-God and its vampire foot-servant and all of her…foot-servants. So…for now I fight the good fight.”

She doesn’t believe you. It’s in her eyes and hands and shoulders.

“How long are you stuck on team righteous?” She leans forward again, propping her head up with her hand.

“Not sure,” you say honestly. Until Mother is dead or you are. That could be a while. Or sooner than you think.

“Does that mean I should just…let you go?” she asks teasingly, brushing her fingers once over her own lips.

You frown in mocking disappointment. “I like you, slayer. Not so wound up as some of the others. I’d hate to have to kill you.”

She smirks and tips her head. “I like confidence in a woman”

Leaning in to match her posture, you smirk back at her. “I never would have guessed.”

…

Your bill continues to rise, and wine turns to scotch to match her. Alcohol tolerance in the undead and superpowered women is unfortunately high, but here you were, the room starting to spin, your cheeks starting to warm.

The stupidest conversations ensuing.

The world could be worse today.

“How do you vamp without people noticing?” she slurs.

“I’m not sure I follow,” your exhale turns into a laugh.

“Like bring your fangs out and everything?” She gestures wildly at nothing.

“It’s mostly involuntary. Fear, anger, hunger. Arousal.”

“Can’t ever have fun without someone seeing then?” she concludes, and she almost sounds sorry for you. It’s ironic.

You shrug casually. “I’m having a pretty fun time now.” You run your foot up her leg, flashing your fangs at her with a smug laugh.

She blinks. (either at the fangs or the foot you’re not sure which)

“So your face doesn’t…?” she gestures to her own nose with a concentrated sweep, fingers bent in a half fist.

“Lord, no. Inbred fools. The whole damned point is to be invisible. And they go backwards in time with that disgusting evolutionary demon face.”

She finishes her drink and leans forward, squinting at your mouth. “Let me…” she trails off, but you know what she means.

You lean closer too, slowly opening your mouth so she can see the fangs. She carefully, or as carefully as her drunk coordination can manage, runs her finger along one.

It cuts her skin and she frowns. You take her finger between your teeth and bite enough to squeeze the slightest of blood from it. Her mouth has fallen open as she watches, and you have to keep from laughing as you flick your tongue against her finger before releasing it.

“Oh, ho,” she laughs, shaking her head and leaning away from you. “You’re a trip, did you know that? Doesn’t say that in your file.”

“Oooh, I have a _file_ ,” you pretend to be impressed, slightly disheartened that she brushed off your advance so easily. 

“I’m not really a studious type. Or a…reading type. Point is, I only got a glimpse of it.”

“Yeah?” you coax. “Enlighten me.”

“You’ve capped what, four slayers?”

You try hiding your smirk behind your glass, shrugging one shoulder. “Give or take.”

She rolls her eyes. “So, a lot.”

“It’s much more difficult now that you’ve all but vacated Europe.”

“Awww, I’m so sorry we made it hard for you to murder us.”

“Don’t be so glib,” you chastise, running your foot once more up her leg. Her intake of breath is unmistakable this time. “Just think. I could’ve _met_ you sooner.”

She grins, rattling her ice idly in her empty glass. “Any sooner and I’d have been a kid.“

“I am a kid.”

“You wouldn’t have liked me in my youth.”

“You wouldn’t have liked me in mine.”

“Who says I like you now?” she counters.

“Oh, I don’t know,” you murmur coyly, “this and that.”

“I think you’ve got a bigger ego than your brain can understand.”

“And I think,” you say slowly, leaning over the table and slowly standing. “I know signs when I see them.”

She doesn’t back away from you as you lean in closer, her lips parting slightly, pupils dilating the smallest fraction.

And you’re going to kiss her, going to close that gap, but before you can, she clocks you _hard_ in the mouth. You blink, frowning at her, and she grins.

“I told you, Calla. Free drink, free hit.”

You hold her gaze for a long beat.

“I’ll see ya round, Karnstein,” she says standing and throwing some money on the table.

She turns to go, but in two steps, you catch her, pulling her in for a hard kiss. She kisses back, the two of you pulling away more slowly than ever in your life, lingering close for a few long seconds. 

You can feel the protest about to spill from her and you beat her to it.

“All’s fair,” you murmur, eyes flicking up to meet hers.

She opens her mouth to say something, but changes her mind, instead exhaling an incredulous laugh and nodding once before turning and leaving.


	7. Transfer Student

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hollstein season 1 au: laura transfers to Silas mid semester and wants to know why her roommate Carmilla's previous roommate dropped out at such an odd time of year and if the strange girl she shares a room with has anything to do with it.

You frown as you enter the dorm room, slinging your bag off your shoulder and hesitating. You had not expected your side of the room to be…well… _made_. There were books and pictures and _bed sheets_ , but you had triple checked the room number. _Triple_ checked. This was definitely where you were supposed to be.

The girl on the other side of the room is buried in a book, big noise-canceling headphones on as she lightly nods her head with the tune.

Carefully you approach, reaching out to touch her shoulder.

She reacts instantly, grabbing your wrist and holding it just out of reach of her. She glares at you, and, not letting go of your wrist, slowly pulls the headphones off her ears with her free hand, slinging them around her neck.

“Can I help you?”

You have no idea what to do, and like an idiot, all you do is pull against her hold. She glances at your wrist in her hand, and after a moment of hesitation, she releases you.

“I just wanted to know why things were on my side.”

She shrugs, and you swear you saw the hint of a smirk in her eyes as she turns her attention back to her book. “She had better places to be than here.”

“Without…clothes? Or…things?”

Again, she shrugs, nonchalantly turning the page. “I don’t know. I’m not her mother.”

“That’s not what I meant. I was just curious,” you explain.

She doesn’t seem particularly offended though. In fact, this makes her look back up at you, eyes searching your face before an impish grin spreads across her face. “Curiosity killed the cat, cutie.”

Something is so incredibly _off_ but you can’t place precisely what because maybe there’s a _lot_ wrong. 

Off is the feeling of your stomach flipping just at the way she is looking at you. Off is the odd connotation you hear lingering behind the words, almost warning, almost… _revealing_. 

Off is the way you swear her eyes say _run_ but also _stay and play the game_.

And you have the strangest sense of almost complete certainty that she may be part of the reason you are here right now and the other girl is not.


	8. Don't Mess with the French Teacher

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hollstein AU: language teachers who get each other flustered in front of the class in a different language

Your first week at the new high school was an uneventful one. Faculty had helped you settle in before classes began, and with your desk set up, the classroom decorated, you had felt ready to tackle the sophomore Spanish class. The rest of the Foreign language department had made their introductions, save for one mysterious and very absent figure.

When you had asked why, they had all laughed.

No one taught like she taught. She didn’t need to show up to meetings to keep her job.

You’d be lying if the thought of her didn’t terrify you.

(it also _definitely_ explains why you were accepted as the Spanish teacher instead of the French teacher)

…

It’s the start of third period on the first day of school, and you’re in the middle of introducing yourself to the class when the first interruption occurs.

A woman knocks lightly on the open door with loose knuckles, drawing your sentence to a screeching halt, so quickly you don’t even remember to close your mouth after the word that died on your lips. 

You just stand there, mouth gaping at the dark-haired done-up woman standing in the doorway. She’s wearing a near floor length black knit shawl over a formfitting gray t-shirt and dark jeans, a few longer silver necklaces hanging down over her chest.

You suppose in her mind that’s formal teacher attire, given all three things you know about her. ( _you’d done some recon in few days you had had to yourself_ )

One, her name was Carmilla Karnstein, AP German and AP French teacher.

Two, she had a tendency to dodge administrative authority.

And three, she was very good at what she did. 

_Good at…teaching, just…teaching_ , you have to remind yourself as you study the expanse of her legs.

She clears her throat, and you blink, realizing how hard you had been staring. Snapping your mouth shut, you force a bright smile. “Ms. Karnstein,” you guess.

Her eyes light with amusement, and she nods her head in greeting. “Enchantee.”

Her voice is low and earthy, and it pulls a real smile from you immediately. You struggle to pull it back. “Encantado.”

She hums like it’s cute you’re speaking Spanish in _Spanish class_.

“À la prochaine,” she murmurs, tipping her head and giving you a half salute before strolling lazily from view.

_Until next time?_ _When would that be?_

You suddenly realize there are fifteen sets of eyes staring at you curiously. Your blush is vicious and unforgiving, and you scramble to pull the lesson back on track.

…

The sound of her heels is unmistakable today, empowered with the most authoritative bite in each echoing step.

She breezes past your door, only to stop, take a retreating step and lean her head back enough to observe you for an obviously temporary visit.

“Une jolie robe sur une jolie femme,” she compliments, playful flirtation in her voice.

Your fingers immediately smooth out the flares of the skirt against your leg. _Pretty dress on a pretty woman?_ You can already feel the blush on the back of your neck, but you grit your teeth and fight it.

She grins, scraping her teeth over her bottom lip to draw your eye, and oh for the love of your God you cannot look away. You blink and swallow and swear to yourself its because the lipstick color is so pretty and dark.

No, _lie_ to yourself.

You frown, crossing your arms and forcing your eyes back up to hers. You’re not just rolling over on her. 

“Aqui hablamos español.“

Her smile falters for just a moment, and you feel and overwhelming sense of satisfaction before she smiles wider.

“Como desee,” she drawls, spinning on her heels and leaving with a definitive _click clack_ down the hall.

Of course she knows Spanish.

Once again you are stuck having made a complete fool of yourself in front of a room full of fifteen year olds, trying to gather up the pieces of your flustered dignity and professionalism.

Two could play at this game, though.

…

The more she compliments you, the more conservative your clothes get until you are basically wearing fully buttoned up collared shirts and slacks. You don’t know why she insists on speaking to you during your classes.

Not once has she approached you outside that room. Not _once_.

It was like she didn’t even _care_ about you, merely the notion of throwing you off your game and that was _infuriating_.

You know she has a class during your lunch period, and you plan your revenge. But, with nothing more than yourself and your will at your disposal, there is not much planning to do. You storm down the hall toward her room, unbuttoning your shirt as you go, much lower than you know is appropriate but nothing anyone will particularly _notice_.

You hope she will though.

It isn’t until you are knocking on her door do you realize that _assertive_ flirtation is not your strong suit. And it isn’t until the door opens that you realize all her stops at your door had had a reason attached to them, and you had none at that very moment.

The student who opened the door goes back to his seat, and you take a tentative step into the room. All her students are staring at you, and it takes her to look up from what she is reading at her desk. When she does, though, the victory is yours as her gaze immediately lowers before she can catch herself.

"Oui…?” she prompts hesitantly, unsure what you are there fore.

You can feel the nerves crawling up your spine as you try to think of exactly what to say, what excuse to give, and the _worst_ possible thing comes tumbling out of your mouth. “Quieres cenar conmigo?”

Inside you are panicking. _A dinner invitation? Really? That was your brilliant plan? Ask her on a freaking_ date _?_

She blinks, glancing nervously at her class for a second before refocusing her gaze on you. And maybe if she _could_ she would be blushing. She certainly seems nervous as she picks at the edge of the book in her hand.

Finally, she breathes an unsure laugh. “Vraiment directe.”

This piques the interest of a few of her students, who are now looking back and forth between the two of you.

“D’accord,” she finally says, and a nod of her head confirms it. She makes a phone with her hand in a _call me_ gesture, winking in a way you _know_ was meant to be overly dramatic but you cannot help but still find it unreasonably attractive.

God. Damn. Her.


	9. Whiny Vampire Girlfriend

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Write a sick day AU where one of them is sick and the other is waiting on them hand and foot?

Carmilla groaned into the couch cushion as her stomach churned.

“I am never trusting you to get blood again,” she muttered, tugging the blanket up higher around her shoulders.

Laura hid her laugh from across the room.

“It’s _not funny_ ,” Carmilla insisted, rolling over to look at her from across the room. “Why won’t you come cuddle me?”

Snorting, Laura glanced over her shoulder. “Yeah. Right. Like I’m risking sickness the week before finals. In your _dreams_ , Carm.”

“Come _on_ , Laura, I can’t even _get_ regular sick. Just _food poisoning_ sick.”

“You’ll understand why I don’t just take your word for it,” she laughed, turning back to her computer to sort through her class notes.

Sighing, Carmilla shoved the blanket off her body. “Fine. But you made me do this.”

“Wh-” Laura barely had time to spin around before Carmilla had thrown herself into her unsuspecting lap, the superhuman speed behind it knocking them both to the ground in a heap.

“ _Carm_ ,” Laura snapped, squirming to try and free herself from the hold.

“Shhh. It’s too late, you’re infected. Come to bed now.”

She helped Laura to her feet, tugging at her hands even as Laura batted them away. “Will you just- _give me a minute_.”

Carmilla frowned, but stopped, looking defeated. 

Sighing, Laura pressed her hand to her forehead. She couldn’t disappoint that face. “Relax. I’m just getting my laptop, okay?” She gestured to it up on her desk. “God, you’re kind of insufferable when you’re sick.”

Carmilla laughed scratchily. “You would be too if you hadn’t been sick in two hundred years.”

Tucking the laptop under her arm, Laura tucked her girlfriend under the other, Carmilla’s head automatically falling to her shoulder. “When you put it that way…”


	10. Left Behind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Vamp!Laura starts getting packages in the mail containing beautiful jewelry and love notes from Carmilla who has disappeared. The packages were planned in case something has happened to her. Years later she returns to Laura who thinks Carmilla died.

It’s the same day. On the fourth of every month. You’re making breakfast or dressing for work and then your dog is barking before the doorbell even rings.

On the fourth of every month, the delivery man stands there, a bewildered look on his face when you open the door. “…Another package…” he says uncertainly.

You smile tersely and sign for it in scrawling cursive on the tablet. “You ain’t an Amazon usual,” he notes. He’s right. They’re not anything you bought. Most of them aren’t even labeled. Just plain wrapping, plain boxes, nothing but your stamped address on the outside.

You shrug. “No, I’m not.”

You take the box inside, scraping your nail along the tape. It breaks so much easier than skin.

Sometimes it’s blood. You suppose you don’t mind that. At first you worried it was a message to lay low. But you think you’ve stepped fairly gracefully into the whole…immortality thing. No mass killings. No killings at _all_ actually.

Though maybe mercy was what had gotten you noticed. Living people tend to tell stories more than the dead.

But that theory quickly died. For the next few packages were jewels. Some of the most beautiful antique jewelry you’d ever laid eyes on. You wish you had a reason to wear them. Problem was, you didn’t go out much anymore. To feed, yes. To live?

You forgot how to live when Carmilla disappeared. _Died_.

So you just hang them on your walls. You don’t have any pictures. They almost make up for it.

…

The next package is just an envelope.

You feel this spark of _almost_ excitement this time as you unfold the letter and scan it. It is undated. Not signed. No return address.

But the language. Oh, the language sounds so familiar you wish you could put your finger on it.

Something about it is personal, yet it does not mention you. It tells a story of grand travels. Cities you have never visited and tales of woe and misfortune you wanted nothing more than to swallow every word.

You live for those letters.

The more they come, the more you fall in love with this stranger, this _ghost._

With each new letter, she makes you laugh. She makes you mourn. 

She makes you remember so much you wish you could forget.

And always, always by the end of these letters, you find yourself running your fingers along your neck, over the double scars that will not fade.

Up and down and up and down, lip caught between teeth and breath caught in your chest.

Somewhere in the back of your mind, you know exactly what you are hoping. Exactly who you imaging scrawling these delicate words on every page but you cannot handle the disappointment of the truth.

So you never acknowledge it.

She is but a lonely spirit who somehow found her way to you.

As time passes though, the letters cease to fill you with the same comfort they used to.

Instead, they just make you cry. You can’t even make it through an entire one without sobbing onto the page, bleeding the second half into an illegible mess of ink. 

You stop going out.

You stop eating.

You stop answering your door.

And just when you begin thinking _fuck_ immortality, _you’ll show immortality who’s boss_ , you get to the next month. The next fourth.

The doorbell rings and rings, and all you do is sit and stare, numb to any muscles that may have helped you stand. The dog barks and you don’t even register it.

Eventually he gives up.

Slips the envelope under the door and slams the storm door shut as he exits.

You didn’t think he would do that.

It doesn’t matter. You won’t read it. (It _shouldn’t_ matter.)

But the curiosity says yes and your head says no.

You can’t help it.

You snatch it from the floor and rip it open.

The text is shorter. Barely taking up a quarter of a page, but this is different. It is scrawled hurriedly with messy cursive. Scared letters with uneven edges where shaky hands had failed.

_The world is not behind you. It’s not running away. You must relearn it. You must keep living. There is no right way to, darling. You are still you and you cannot ever lose that. It is_ impossible _and you mustn’t forget it._

_I’m sorry I could not be there, love. I’m sorry fell away._

_It wasn’t your fault._

_I wasn’t your fault._

_I hope you can forgive me. I hope you can forget me._

_All my love,_

_Carmilla_

Your sob is hard and your hand flies up to cover your mouth to muffle it. Had it always been her? Had she always been here? What sick joke was this?

You shake your head and it knocks tears from your eyes onto your cheeks. Did she know what it was like? Losing her over and over and _over_ again like you were caught in this torturous hell of _reminders_ and _questions_. For _what_?

Hope?

You laugh bitterly, dropping the letter onto the nearest table. Hope wasn’t worth it.

…

Eventually the letters stop. You hadn’t opened any in a while. It’s decades of _nothing_ when a knock on your door makes you frown. You storm forward, anger burning in your chest as you force the lock open. “Like I told the last guy, I _don’t_ want any mail, just-”

“Laur?”


	11. Shining Armor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Can you do a hollstein au where carmilla is a knight and laura is the princess who is totally smitten and carmilla comes back from battle all sweaty and disheveled and laura just loves it

You always loved watching the knights line up in your father’s presence. One by one, always turning in perfect unison. Everything they did was the same. Their marching, their speech.

They even for the most part _looked_ the same.

The one, however. The one on the right was shorter. By at least a foot.

It always intrigued you. How did they become your father’s knight? When had they earned themselves that title and for what bravery?

Once, as they had been exiting, you had grabbed their hand, asked them directly. They had looked at you from beneath their helmet and you swear you could see the complete bewilderment even without a proper view.

After a long moment, they had turned and left.

It was quite the oddest exchange. 

And it isn’t until later that evening that you get a proper answer. The maid tells you someone is at your door requesting your permission to enter.

Confused, you nod your head. The woman who enters is not one you are familiar with. Her hair is dark and messy, away from her face like she had been running her fingers through it in thought for hours. 

Her clothes say wealthy but her cleanliness says poor.

“Who are you?”

“The princess asked me a question. I thought you deserved a face to face answer.”

Your lips twitch up in half a smile. “You could have taken your helmet off and told me then.”

“Not without making a spectacle of myself.” She bites her lip sheepishly. “In armor, I cannot…reach past here.”

She lifts her arms to show you exactly how far, flashing her teeth in an apologetic smile, and before you can refrain, you laugh.

“You’re quite something, aren’t you?”

She blinks, mouth opening in almost surprise before she catches herself, shrugging and rubbing the back of her neck. “I wouldn’t say that. No one’s special.” 

She frowns and corrects herself. “Save your Father of course. The king is…clearly…special.”

She glances away before looking back up at you. “May I start over?”

You nod, hiding your smile once more.

“I nearly died saving your father’s life. Not that I was in his army to begin with, but. Not all deaths come from battle.”

“And how, may I ask, did you do this?”

“There was a big cat. And a lost king.”

You put your hand to your forehead. “He got lost in the forest?”

“You didn’t hear it from me.” You don’t miss her smirk though.

She glances around once more, shifting idly near the door. Clearing her throat, she straightens her posture before speaking again. “I think I should be leaving,” she says uncertainly.

“You don’t have to.”

You say it too quickly and she notices. Her smile is sad but resolved as she looks you in the eye once again. “It’s late enough as is. I do hope to see you again, though.”

She leaves before you can say goodbye and before the maids can whisper gossip.

…

You pretend you are not watching the tiny knight every time she is in the castle, but you do. Without fail, your eyes automatically pick her out of the crowd. She wears her helmet less now that the city is not under attack. Something about her hair slung down around her metal shoulders is just so _enthralling_.

Sometimes she catches you staring and you swear she smirks and sits a little straighter.

Maybe you’re just imagining things.

…

She is sent off to battle, to rally the troops and lead them to the end of the war. It’s those nights you wait up, late into the night on top of the defense walls, cross-legged and terrified you might lose your strange knight.

The first time she comes back, armor dented, and blood crusted, but her smile is proud and her laugh is bright and _alive_ , despite how her hair clings to her neck with sweat, despite how bruise her jaw and hands look.

She looks like she is exactly where she is supposed to be, and your heart skips a beat when she sees you and looks at you with an even _more_ certain smile. A flash of something amused and knowing in her eyes.

“Miss me?” she calls smugly over the crowd.

Your heart kicks against your ribs again and all you can do to shove it down is shout an indignant “ _you wish_!” back in her general direction.

The smug smile doesn’t fade, though. She just blows you a kiss and leads her horse toward the armory.

You think you might love this girl.


	12. Never Dead

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Carmilla drinks Lophis blood and defeats the dean but is crazed. It takes Laura saying she loves her to calm her down

You just followed the sounds of shrieks and earthquakes to find her. It wasn’t hard.

When you get there, she is covered in blood, what was left of Perry on the ground in front of her.

“Carmilla…?” you ask hesitantly, watching as her shoulders hunch.

She doesn’t turn to face you. 

“It’s over, come on let’s go-”

“ _No_ ,” she shouts, eyes the color of blood. It is then you realize exactly how far she had gone.

“We won,” you try again.

“WE _DIDN’T.”_ The room shakes almost as hard as if it had been from Mattie. “She’ll come back she _always comes back_ ,” her voice is ragged, breaking as she clenches her fists. 

“She’s dead.” The words tremble on your lips, and you’re not sure if you’re crying or scared or both.

She advances an angry step toward you, and immediately you flinch away.

“That’s what she wants me to think,” she growls.

“Carmilla, please.”

The way she advances on you is predatory. Her eyes are red and the veins in her arms are dark and prominent. She reaches out and you jerk away before she can even touch you.

When you realize it is just to stroke your cheek, you feel a fleeting sense of relief.

“How do I know she didn’t jump to you?”

The pressure in your chest lurches and suddenly you feel strikingly cold. _She couldn’t possibly think…?_

_“_ She never touched me, Carm!” your voice is desperate, and her knuckles stroke down your jaw, fingers splaying along your neck.

“She didn’t touch Gingerbread girl either and look where that assumption got us. One double dead sister and an undead agent orange.”

Chills run down your spine and you fight the urge to run. She’d just kill you, you _know it_.

“Please,” you whisper, and you are _definitely_ crying now. “carm, please, I would never hurt you.”

“Ahhh,” she breathes contentedly. “Now _that’s_ the Mother I remember.” Her fingers curl tighter around your neck and you fight to keep your eyes locked with hers through the overflowing tears. “Tell me again. Tell me how precious I am to you.”

“Carm _stop_ ,” you sputter, fighting every urge your body has to _defend_. Your  hands want to claw at hers, your legs want to kick but you _can’t you can’t._

_“_ Tell me you’re the only one who could love a monster like me.”

You lick your lips and close your eyes and _pray. “_ You’re not a monster.”

She laughs, bitter and angry and the walls shake with the force of it, plaster from the weak walls scattering in tiny bits to the floor.

“You’ve got no one left to jump to,” she mutters, and her nails start to dig into your skin, your air starting to be blocked.

“Please, carm, it’s me.”

She just sneers at you, and you can’t find her behind the red irises anymore.

You’re starting to get lightheaded, dizzy from the low oxygen, and you have to grab hold of her wrist at your neck to steady yourself.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper.

“What?”

“I-I’m sorry that our love never matched.”

She blinks, and for a second you can see something of _worry_ in all the red. “I’m sorry that my love wasn’t your love. A-and I’m sorry I…I’m sorry that I never even told you.”

Her grip loosens, and you hold back the urge to gasp in air. She needs this and maybe so do you.

“I love you, Carm. But…I’m not the only one who ever could. I’m sorry if…you thought I couldn’t.”

Her hand falls limp at her side, but she isn’t looking at you. She’s looking past you, eyes locked on some invisible _something_.

“God, _Laura?”_ she asks in half a whisper.

All you can do is reach out and grab her shoulders, trying to hold her gaze. “Yes, Carm, yes I’m right here okay?”

“I can’t…I can’t do this.”

“Yes you can.”

Her knees wobble and you grunt as she leans her weight into you. “I’m sorry,” she mumbles into your shoulder. “I didn’t, I…”

“I know.”


End file.
